


General Design

by moonlighten, Nekoian



Series: Grand Design [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: General fluff, Multiverse, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:17:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: Northern Ireland is having a very typical night. For now.





	1. Perfectly normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts), [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> Part of the as yet unfinished Grand Design universe shared by myself and Moonlighten, in which two universes worth of Brit Bros are smashed together and deal with each others nonsense. 
> 
> This has been batting around in my brain for a little while now and thought it'd be nice to post something. Hope it's okay...

England is standing at the kitchen sink with rolled up sleeves, his arms soaked as he cleans each item in the sink before passing it to Northern Ireland for transferal into the dishwasher. England claims Northern Ireland is helping, but the truth is it’s merely a thinly veiled way of making the same tired speech he always does; “You should be grateful you don’t have to do the dishes anymore,” England aims a fork vaguely in Northern Irelands direction, “I remember when we didn’t have all these contraception’s to do our work for us.” 

Northern Ireland jostles a stubborn pan until it shifts into place between the plates and the cutlery box, “I can’t imagine,” he accepts a bundle of cutlery and drops it unsorted into the little plastic box. He very clearly remembers a time long before dishwashers and mobile phones, but he humours his older brother if only to avoid having to do the dishes for the remainder of his time in England’s home. 

Once the dishes are loaded Northern Ireland plucks his vibrating phone from his back pocket.

_**Slovakia:** Hey Sever, what are you up to?  <3 Jablko says hi!!_

Northern Ireland quickly plunges his phone into his pocket, shrugging his shoulders curtly at England’s suspicious glare, “Scotland was checking in.” Northern Ireland’s lie makes England visibly relax. He’s only just made friends with Slovakia, he can’t assume England knowing about it will help either of them, “Do we have any dessert?” 

“Dessert is for special occasions, North, you know that.” England fumbles with a small tablet, eventually he releases the thing and places it into the little trap, snapping it shut. 

“it is a special occasion, I get to see you!” His flattery earns him a sceptical look and the dishwasher gets turned on at him with a sharp twist of England’s wrist. 

“if you’re still hungry there’s fruit on the table.” 

Northern Ireland can’t say that fruit is what he wanted, but he’s hungry enough that he procures an apple and begins to crunch his way through it while England, looking pleased with himself, pops the kettle on and sets out two mugs. 

“Tea?” England drops teabags into both mugs before Northern Ireland has time to swallow, so he grips the Jazz apple with his teeth while handing over the milk that England expects to be handed to him. 

Northern Ireland eventually eats the whole apple; core and all, and eventually finds himself sitting on the floor of the sitting room, tea perched on the hearth and a slice of victoria sponge half eaten on a floral plate beside him. 

“I used to own a set of those,” England remarks about a particularly ugly set of porcelain dogs with gormless cross eyes and noses like something has violently hit them with a poker. “Scotland and Ireland pinched them, I’ve always wondered where they put them.” 

Probably buried them in the highlands somewhere, Northern Ireland wants to say, but that sounds like too much effort on Irelands part, more likely they got smashed into bits and said bits were scattered across whatever garden they happened to be sharing at the time. 

“They were a present from the King.” England says sadly, without clarifying which King he might mean or why a Royal would randomly gift a set of ugly Pomeranian-looking-green-things to a Country for any reason beyond secretly resenting that country. Northern Ireland doesn’t care enough to ask questions, he suspects doing so might inspire England to go on Ebay and buy a replacement, or worse, decide rooting around in the attic at this late hour to be a fun family activity. 

During the day perhaps; but not at night, even Northern Ireland doesn’t have the energy for that kind of nonsense right after dinner. 

Northern Ireland makes a faint noise of agreeability and munches down the rest of his cake, making sure to suck the jam from his fingers and wipe them on his trousers. 

“Use a piece of kitchen roll North, have some decorum.” England shakes his head. 

The trip to the kitchen allows Northern Ireland a moment to pull out his phone and begin the task of texting Slovakia back.

_**Me:** Just ha cake and tea, England is being himself as usual. =/ _

_…_

_**Slovakia:** lol, you British are so funny. I am heading bed. Tell me if England is still himself in morning!!_

Northern Ireland sends a quick thumbs up emoji before stuffing his phone back into his pocket. 

The credits are rolling on the Antique's roadshow by the time he gets back with a banana to eat. England finds a crackly old black and white film to watch about people in period clothing doing the usual old period drama routine, a woman with her hair up pens a note for what feels like fifteen minutes. 

It’s all very draining and Northern Ireland feels a wave of tiredness that needs a stout shake to rid himself of it until he can wish England a good night and drag his arse up to bed. Normally Northern Ireland would toss and turn, struggling to sleep at all regardless of how tired he is, but tonight he falls asleep with the taste of toothpaste still in his mouth and his skin freed from the confines of his T-shirt while half asleep due to the uncomfortable heat that a duvet brings. 

He dreams of very little, a faint muffled sound like a flock of birds taking flight and a feeling of vertigo before waking with a start just as the ground slams into him. 

Northern Ireland sits up, rubbing a chunk of sleep sand from his eye and peering at his surroundings. Not his messy room with his posters and organised mess of clothing on the floor. 

There’s a television on a nearby table highlighted by the very dim light. His bed has a smell of floral detergent and not fresh linen. It’s all very familiar yet alien. When he slips from the bed his feet touch wood instead of carpet, it’s warm yet unyielding. 

Northern Ireland's stomach lets out an angry growl as he tugs at the stiff collar of pyjamas he’s never seen in his life. They’re black with faint white stripes running up and down them. 

He can’t hear the distant rumble of England’s snoring, nor the sound of the water heater ticking over. He thinks he can hear a clock. 

His stomach forces him to stand and go in search of food but when he does his entire world wobbles. His legs are much too long, making him trip himself and snag a toe on some unseen thing in the dark. “Fuck!” He bites down on his lip. 

That was Michael’s voice. 

\---


	2. Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's okay.

No matter how gently Northern Ireland tries to move his borrowed body each footfall seems to thump and creak with each step. He blames his own racing heart and inability to see mostly; although every time his feet contacts the ground makes him wince. 

By some miracle he makes it to the kitchen he remembers so vaguely, it smells bleach clean, almost burning the inside of his nose on every inhale. Very little light makes it through into the room yet Northern Ireland hesitates to turn on the light. Nothing can materialise an older brother like wasting electricity. Like moths to flames. 

The pantry door gets teased open with the delicately of a surgeon, for fear he might get caught invading Other-England’s home and stealing his food. They were often on bad terms so it’s with great hesitation that Northern Ireland extracts a packet of Weetabix from the cupboard and drops three of the wheat bricks into a bowl that rattled upon extraction even after Northern Ireland politely shh’d it. 

His heavy hand makes the door of the fridge close much too hard when he’s done coating the cereal in milk and enough sugar to make the stuff palatable. Even digging out a spoon becomes more like tripping and falling directly on a stack of cymbals left behind by some abhorrent orchestra made entirely of straw men designed for this unlikely scenario. 

When he finally gets to eat he can feel a little more strength start to flow through him, but hardly very much. It’s enough that he can remember this kitchen, the time spent reading and lingering and worrying about never getting home. It all returns in one sickening lurch of his stomach. He forces himself to keep it down. 

He’s eaten his way through one biscuit of his stolen Weetabix, and the other two have begun to desegregate into a mush, only to be blinded by the light suddenly clicking on, it burns his retinas and makes his spoon kick up a small puddle of milk. 

Other-England stands at the door, dishevelled and bleary eyed. His body is coated in baggy pyjamas, slippered feet make a distinctive slapping noise when he walks forward, eyes pinned on Northern Ireland suspiciously. 

“What are you doing up?” England asks with a voice made husky for interrupted sleep. His focus turns to the bowl, and suspicion slowly begins to fade, “I thought you might be a burglar.” 

Northern Ireland is temporality baffled by this, expecting a prolonged questioning of why he’s here in the wrong world yet again and why he’s using up the precious supply of milk while doing so. He finally catches sight of his left hand, which is clutching the spoon; it’s not _his_. 

“I got hungry, sorry.” He admits in Michael’s voice, although this piece of news seems not to be news at all to Other-England who nods curtly and eyeballs Northern Ireland with what could be bafflement. England’s face always looks a touch spiteful regardless of which one it is wearing the expression, so it can be difficult to get his feelings down to an exact science. 

Pseudoscience. 

Northern Ireland switches the spoon to his right hand and shrugs as he awkwardly scoops up another spoonful, places it cautiously into his mouth and chews it over to avoid having to say anything more. 

This seems to restore Other-England’s sense of normality and inspires him to pop on the kettle. 

“Actually taking the time to taste your food for a change. That’s a novelty,” Other-England chuckles, “Tea?” he asks while pulling out two mugs and dumping some tea bags into the pot. 

Northern Ireland contemplates telling Other-England what’s happened, but he has a vivid recollection of what happened when he so much as touched Michael before, or leaned on him or even looked at him in a way that was not approved of. Somehow he doesn’t think being inside his counterpart will be a lesser crime; even if it is a mystery as to why it’s happened. Northern Ireland makes the decision to keep quiet, however, his mouth is not accustomed to being still for very long and he has to eat another spoonful of soggy Weetabix to keep his jaw busy. 

Other-England, however, has no qualms about carrying on the conversation, he comments on Northern Irelands lead feet and on the temperature of the night, which by Other-England’s explanation is not only much too cold but also somehow the fault of Other-Scotland who is presumably not around to defend himself. 

“I thought it was too warm.” Northern Ireland cuts in, he cannot help himself. The comment startles Other-England’s eyes wide. Northern Ireland clears his throat to clarify, “it usually is too warm for me.” He shrugs again hoping to cast the illusion of being his other self in entirety, “Just the time of year I suppose. I hate when it gets too hot.” 

Northern Ireland bites his mouth shut. 

“I suppose it might be a bit muggy.” England draws his words out as long and slow as they’ll go. He sounds almost broken. “You’ve not been up to anything, have you North?” Other-England sets a mug of tea down on the counter at Northern Ireland’s side. 

“Naw.” Northern Ireland dips his head, ignoring the way England breathes in deep, likely sniffing for tobacco or alcohol or some other illegal thing that he can be wary of; like Tayto cheese and onion. 

Northern Ireland’s own breath becomes short and shallow; hoping that Michael had not actually been up to anything unsavory. Northern Ireland would surely get the blame. 

Other-England shuffles away allowing Northern Ireland a deep lungful of air and a sigh of relief, “I thought you’d have slept all the way to tomorrow evening. Not like you to get up this early.” 

“Maybe I will,” Northern Ireland swallows down another mouthful, "sleep I mean,” although with food in his stomach and a hit of caffeine in his system he’s beginning to feel a familiar wiriness. He doubts he’ll be able to sleep until tomorrow night at the soonest. 

Other-England waits guard-dog-like until Northern Ireland is finished eating and has stowed his dishes in the sink. He returns to bed after Northern Ireland has navigated his way back to the converted loft of his Other-self and the light that sneaks in through gaps around the door blinks out. 

He looks down at himself. It's not him at all, the darkened room allowing some welcome detachment from the visceral strangeness of having an entirely different body than the one he was born into. Northern Ireland's stomach churns again. Although it might just be hunger beginning to count down until the next time this tall wobbly body needs to eat. 

\--

The sky has started to turn blue, a sign of the morning encroaching on his sleepless night. He had dozed a little only to be yanked awake by some unseen force. His mouth has the taste of death beginning to form, a heavy weight is rolling around in his skull until he sits up and stares wearily around him. He’s startled briefly by his surroundings, not his room. He needs to remind himself of his situation and experimentally kicks off the bed covers. Not his body. 

He’d expected some higher level of discomfort to come from being lodged in somebody else's body, some feeling like his soul is the wrong shape. All he feels, however, is the uncanny imbalance in his limbs and lightness of frame. Otherwise, this body feels the same, as though made from the same stuff. 

The question of how one brain gets swapped with another does flitter through his consciousness. He knows that brains are little more than computers but the science is too much for him to want to linger on. Best to blame magic and move on. 

With the new found natural light as a guide, Northern Ireland takes stock of the things around him. A bedside table with a stack of books, a clock, phone, a lamp that looks like it’s been pinched from Other-England’s antique collection due to its brightly coloured glass shade with bright pink flowers, white lilies, and green leaves all perched on a skinny metal body. The wire is tangled with a phone charger, phone case is dull and black unlike his own. His phone case is better. _His_ has flamingoes. 

Northern Ireland grabs up the phone and hits the unlock button almost instinctively. When his brain has caught up he realises he might be able to use this to get assistance. Northern Ireland begins to scroll through the contacts of which there are very few: the Other-brothers, Iceland and not much else of note.

It takes a while to cast his mind back and remind himself what each of the other-siblings is like, Other-Scotland has experience with body swapping he remembers Other-Wales was a nice sort. Perhaps he could rely on them? How does one approach this sort of thing? They’re unlikely to believe him, aren’t they? 

_Aren't they?_

He struggles with typing a message for so long that the words begin to jumble. These needle fingers are far too long and skinny for the small phone. Northern Ireland frowns at the screen and wishes he knew how one handles such a bizarre situation. This kind of thing only happens in crappy fiction, surely. 

Northern Ireland deletes his message then realises with horror that he needs to pee. 

He regrets drinking tea and tries to hold it in, but soon he can’t. He tosses the phone aside and groans as he slumps to the bathroom. Even if these hands are technically not his he is hesitant to touch Michaels cock. 

If he ever sees Michael again, he makes a vow to never bring up how he not only sat down to take a piss, but, did everything else with his eyes firmly shut. 

He washes his hands and exits the bathroom feeling very ashamed of himself, only to meet Other-England as he makes his away along the landing holding an empty laundry basket, Other-Englands mouth opens noiselessly and once again he looks almost beside himself with bafflement, quickly sets the basket down and presses a hand to Northern Irelands brow. 

“Goodness, North, are you feeling alright? Your colour is so high and your brow is warm. It’s not like you to be awake so early.” He adds, with what looks like suspicion that's trying to hide behind impassivity. 

“I just needed the toilet. It’s nothing, really.” Northern Ireland’s voice breaks when he talks, making his feeling of shame deepen. His palms feel sweaty when he balls up his hands. 

Other-England’s eyes narrow and his mouth presses into a colourless line, “I’m sure I don’t want to know,” he says with a sharp shake of his head, “well, since you’re awake how about you may as well gather up all the clothing you need washed.” 

“Yes!” Northern Ireland scoops up the laundry basket, “I’ll do that. Because I know what I’ve been wearing. Of course I do.” 

“I should hope so.” Other-England tightens the tie on his dressing gown, he looks set to say something else but Northern Ireland loudly excuses himself and plods off with the basket. 

Other-England must never know that he touched Michaels cock.


End file.
